I am a big fan of thunderstorms. Growing up in central Florida, you could set your watch by them as they rolled in nearly every summer afternoon. The towering clouds building on the horizon called us home for a little respite, an hour or so of down time, before we headed back out to play until dark. I'd sit on our screened porch, coke and snack in hand, listening to the rain lash out at the metal roof, watching the lightening play and hearing the thunder cackle in response.
Our first summer out of seminary, Denise and I lived in Cape Coral in a upper floor condo overlooking the Caloosahatchie River. There I got a different view as I watched the storms roll in. From our balcony, you could see the line in the water as the rain stirred its surface. I could watch it, even hear it make its way down the river, across the canal, inching its way ever closer. Then I could feel the first drops of rain blown into my face by the wind that pushed it along, chasing me inside. All outdoors was first hidden by the sheets of falling water, then exposed by the brilliant streaks that lined the sky.
This all changed a few years back when Hurricane Wilma came through. It was the strongest storm we had ever stayed put for, and it left quite mess to clean up after it passed by. But it wasn't really the storm that scared me. It was the effect it had on our dogs, particularly our most neurotic dog Cassidy. Since that time, even the slightest sound of thunder sends her into a nervous fit, shaking and panting and climbing into your lap. Which can be annoying in and of itself. But since recently the storms have been rolling in at night, it has gone to a whole new level. Let me paint the picture...
It's 2:00 AM and there I am, all cozy and sound asleep when a distant rumble is picked up by her sensitive ears. She is immediately on edge, up and pacing the floor. This in turn rouses the other dogs who jump down and join the pacing. Did I mention that it is a tile floor? So I am stirred by the clicking of the nails of 12 little paws against it. Another rumble, this time closer, and Cassidy panics. Those nails are now scraping at high speed against the floor, which being tile gives her no traction and she runs in place like the characters on so many Saturday morning cartoons. Finally able to make progress, she flees to the only safe place she sees, namely under the bed. Unfortunately, her round body doesn't quite fit, so I hear more urgent scraping of paw on floor as she burrows. Finally still and quiet, another clap of thunder gets her going, only now she is stuck under the bed and doubly panicked. In her alarmed state, she is whimpering, clawing, shaking the whole bed - sort of like those old motel beds, only no quater needed. So I get up to free her, hoping to calm her, and praying the storm has passed. When she is finally relaxed enough to lie down, I climb into my bed, lay my head on the pillow, and notice that all too familiar flash through the window.
1001. 1002. 1003...
Our first summer out of seminary, Denise and I lived in Cape Coral in a upper floor condo overlooking the Caloosahatchie River. There I got a different view as I watched the storms roll in. From our balcony, you could see the line in the water as the rain stirred its surface. I could watch it, even hear it make its way down the river, across the canal, inching its way ever closer. Then I could feel the first drops of rain blown into my face by the wind that pushed it along, chasing me inside. All outdoors was first hidden by the sheets of falling water, then exposed by the brilliant streaks that lined the sky.
This all changed a few years back when Hurricane Wilma came through. It was the strongest storm we had ever stayed put for, and it left quite mess to clean up after it passed by. But it wasn't really the storm that scared me. It was the effect it had on our dogs, particularly our most neurotic dog Cassidy. Since that time, even the slightest sound of thunder sends her into a nervous fit, shaking and panting and climbing into your lap. Which can be annoying in and of itself. But since recently the storms have been rolling in at night, it has gone to a whole new level. Let me paint the picture...
It's 2:00 AM and there I am, all cozy and sound asleep when a distant rumble is picked up by her sensitive ears. She is immediately on edge, up and pacing the floor. This in turn rouses the other dogs who jump down and join the pacing. Did I mention that it is a tile floor? So I am stirred by the clicking of the nails of 12 little paws against it. Another rumble, this time closer, and Cassidy panics. Those nails are now scraping at high speed against the floor, which being tile gives her no traction and she runs in place like the characters on so many Saturday morning cartoons. Finally able to make progress, she flees to the only safe place she sees, namely under the bed. Unfortunately, her round body doesn't quite fit, so I hear more urgent scraping of paw on floor as she burrows. Finally still and quiet, another clap of thunder gets her going, only now she is stuck under the bed and doubly panicked. In her alarmed state, she is whimpering, clawing, shaking the whole bed - sort of like those old motel beds, only no quater needed. So I get up to free her, hoping to calm her, and praying the storm has passed. When she is finally relaxed enough to lie down, I climb into my bed, lay my head on the pillow, and notice that all too familiar flash through the window.
1001. 1002. 1003...
And here we go again!
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